The Gashlycrumb Tinies Revealed
by Velkyn
Summary: In The Gashlycrumb Tinies, an alphabet primer, Edward Gorey introduced twenty six small children who met an untimely end. Here, for the first time, are all the tragic, disturbing, and sometimes humourous details.
1. A is for Amy

-This is a work of fiction based on The Gashlycrumb Tinies, a poem and alphabet primer by Edward Gorey. It is rated T for violence resulting in accidental and intentional deaths. This work is written purely for entertainment value. Please don't sue me.-

* * *

A is for Amy  
by Elisabeth Henry

'...And they all lived happily ever after.'

Amy finished the book and reached down to pet the cat. He dodged her touch and looked balefully at her.

'Oh, come on, Jasper; it was a jolly tale!' Amy slammed the thin, hard-bound book against her knees. Jasper stared at her through half-lidded eyes. 'Why don't you ever like my stories?'

Amy stood up, wobbling slightly. Her mother had told her not to sit on the stairs: it was dangerous. The stairs were too narrow, too long, too steep. Amy didn't care. It was fun to imagine that the stairway was her own private house, with every step a different room. A house with twenty-five rooms! Wasn't that amazing!

She reached down to pick up the cat, but he moved smoothly out of reach and started to climb the steps. Amy shrugged and followed him, tucking the book under her arm. Jasper stopped, three stairs from the top, and turned. It seemed as if he was waiting for her to catch up. Amy moved a little faster.

As she reached the twenty-first stair, Jasper came down to meet her. He twined himself around her legs, purring loudly, rubbing his sides against her shins.

'Good boy, Jasper,' Amy said, patting him. She tried to step forward, but he was in the way. 'Move now, Jasper. It's bath time.' The cat glanced up at her briefly and slipped between her feet. As Amy took her next step, he moved again, into her path.

His yowl as she stepped on him was drowned out by her scream as she fell down... down... down to the lower landing. Jasper rushed to the top of the stairs and crouched there, his whiskers quivering. Footsteps pounded along the upper floor, and Amy's mother appeared at the head of the stairs. Her scream was louder even than Amy's.

Jasper sniffed and reached around to lick his wounded paw. The little cow. Well, at least she wouldn't be reading him any more of those insipid fairy-tales.

* * *

_**A is for Amy, who fell down the stairs...**_


	2. B is for Basil

-This is a work of fiction based on The Gashlycrumb Tinies, a poem and alphabet primer by Edward Gorey. It is rated T for violence resulting in accidental and intentional deaths. This work is written purely for entertainment value. Please don't sue me.-

* * *

B is for Basil  
by Elisabeth Henry

Ever since Basil's older sister had returned home from boarding school three weeks ago, she had been teasing him about the wooded area behind their parents' estate.

'There are lions living in the woods,' she taunted, as Basil headed to his mid-morning violin lesson. 'And tigers,' she insisted, as Basil tried fruitlessly to find his appetite at teatime. 'And bears,' she murmured, as Basil crawled into his nightshirt and readied himself for bed. 'And they'll eat you up,' she whispered, as Basil buried his head under the covers and shivered in the dark.

Basil was torn. His sister was probably having him on; after all, lions and tigers only lived in deepest, darkest Africa, didn't they? But then there was that song - the one his mum used to sing to him. The one about the teddy bears' picnic. If teddy bears had picnics, why couldn't REAL bears? Everyone knew that the very best picnic spot was just inside the woods at the edge of the estate.

Finally, Basil had grown tired of his sister's teasing. He would show her once and for all that he wasn't afraid of the woods. With his trusty electric torch - the special one, the one his father had brought back from Switzerland - and his schoolbag stuffed with crisps, Basil sneaked out through the servants' entrance and trundled across the back lawn.

It wasn't so bad, he decided, being out at this hour. After all, the moon was so bright and full, he could see everything around him: the stone sundial, his mother's climbing roses, even the colourful plastic birdfeeder hanging from the recently-trimmed apple tree. This would be a doddle.

But stepping into the woods was like stepping into another world. The trees spread their heavy branches so wide that the moon's light could not penetrate them. Basil felt his knees knocking together, but he bravely switched on his torch and headed deeper into the woods, his satchel bumping against his legs as he carefully picked his way over tangled roots and the occasional fallen log.

About twenty yards in, Basil stopped. He had heard something - some kind of growl. He looked down at himself. Was it his stomach? Supper _had _been a long time ago... Perhaps he should open a packet of crisps. He certainly couldn't prove his bravery on an empty stomach, now, could he?

Setting down his torch, he dug into his schoolbag and pulled out a small cellophane packet. Tearing it open, he reached in and grabbed a handful of the salty potato crisps. They smelled very good, and tasted even better. Crunching noisily, Basil failed to hear the rustling behind him. It wasn't until the first bear lumbered out from behind a tree that he realised: the growling sound had not been his stomach.

Apparently, real bears _do _have picnics, after all!

* * *

_**B is for Basil assaulted by bears...**_


	3. C is for Clara

-This is a work of fiction based on The Gashlycrumb Tinies, a poem and alphabet primer by Edward Gorey. It is rated T for violence resulting in accidental and intentional deaths. This work is written purely for entertainment value. Please don't sue me.-

* * *

C is for Clara  
by Elisabeth Henry

When she was thirteen, Clara stopped eating.

It was six months before her parents noticed the changes in their daughter's weight, but by that time, the girl looked more like an Egyptian mummy than a child.

'Please eat,' her father said, kneeling beside her bed. 'Please eat,' her mother said, wringing her hands and choking back tears. Her little brother stood in the doorway and watched the scene with wide, frightened eyes. But Clara would not eat.

Her family consulted a seemingly-endless succession of physicians and surgeons, naturopaths and faith healers, sages and gurus. They paraded through the house, studied the patient, nodded wisely, offered potions and prayers and incantations - to no avail. Clara would not eat.

Delicacies were flown in from all over the world: cod tongues from Newfoundland, shark fins from Indonesia, sugar ants and kangaroo tails from Australia. A famous chef, who had gone to school with her mother, offered to cook whatever the girl desired. But still, Clara would not eat.

After another month, Clara was unable to leave her bed, and her parents finally admitted defeat. They propped her up with some pillows, and she spent her remaining days staring out the window as summer turned to autumn.

Clara's parents arranged to have their daughter's brain extracted and placed in a specimen jar. They tied a red ribbon around the jar and set it lovingly on the mantelpiece, where it remained until the house burned down the following summer.

* * *

**_C is for Clara who wasted away..._**


	4. D is for Desmond

-This is a work of fiction based on The Gashlycrumb Tinies, a poem and alphabet primer by Edward Gorey. It is rated T for violence resulting in accidental and intentional deaths. This work is written purely for entertainment value. Please don't sue me.-

* * *

D is for Desmond  
by Elisabeth Henry

It had begun to snow.

The wolves were gaining on the sleigh; the horses were in a panic. Six year old Desmond buried himself deeper under the woollen blanket as his father cracked the whip and his mother sobbed softly in the seat next to him. They were still miles away from the nearest village, and the wolves continued to gain ground.

'Get rid of everything!' his father shouted. 'Hurry!' Desmond watched, wide-eyed, as his mother and her maid scrambled to turn out the contents of the sleigh. It was only logical: the lighter the load, the faster they would go. Luggage bounced on the snow before bursting open, sending clothing everywhere. Some of the wolves were hit by flying shirts and trousers. Desmond could hear the mangy beasts' pitiful whines as their paws became tangled in the family's winter wardrobe.

Still, the rabid pack pressed forward. Boxes and bags were tossed from the sleigh, trinkets and souvenirs littering the snow. The wolves smoothly dodged these new obstacles and continued their relentless pursuit.

Desmond's mother removed her heavy fur coat and, with a wistful sigh, flung it from their transport. Three of the smaller wolves pounced on it, tearing it to pieces with their wickedly sharp teeth.

Finally, there was nothing more in the sleigh - nothing left to jettison - but still the chase continued. Desmond's father looked around frantically, while his mother moaned in fear and the maid buried her face in her hands. The animals drew closer, all slavering jaws and gleaming fangs. One of the wolves snapped at Desmond's bright red scarf, and he snatched it out of reach with a squeal of terror.

'Just a few more pounds,' his mother cried, searching fruitlessly for something - anything! - that could be discarded. Curled up on the floor of the sleigh, Desmond whimpered softly.

Everyone turned to stare at him. His mother smiled weakly. 'About forty-five pounds, wouldn't you say, ma'am?' said the maid, advancing on him.

They made it to the village shortly before sunset, but the need for haste had finally passed. The wolves were too busy eating the boy to pay any attention to the escaping sleigh.

* * *

**_D is for Desmond thrown out of a sleigh..._**


	5. E is for Earnest

-This is a work of fiction based on The Gashlycrumb Tinies, a poem and alphabet primer by Edward Gorey. It is rated T for violence resulting in accidental and intentional deaths. This work is written purely for entertainment value. Please don't sue me.-

* * *

E is for Earnest  
by Elisabeth Henry

Earnest's father was a very important man. At least, that's what Earnest's mother kept saying, every time Earnest tried to make his way into the laboratory that had been installed in the basement.

The sprawling estate held enough diversions to interest an eight year old boy - a pond full of frogs, a small orchard of apple trees suitable for climbing, and of course, a swing set - but the most interesting thing of all was the door to the laboratory. Earnest would sit outside it after school every day and wait for it to open, just to catch a glimpse of the wonders within.

It was like having a real wizard living right in the house! Steaming potions and strange equipment and esoteric books about things like bi-ol-ogy and chem-is-try - Earnest had no idea what any of it meant, but he longed to find out.

When the babysitter closed the door behind his parents on the night of Lord and Lady Rotterdam's fancy dress party, and then settled herself in front of the telly with a bowl of onion crisps and a trashy romance novel, Earnest crept down the stairs to the basement and sat on the bottom step, looking longingly at the door to the laboratory. It was a moment before he realised that something was different. Something about the heavy steel door.

It was unlocked.

The little red light next to the handle was dimmed. How many times had his mother said not to disturb his father when the little red light was on? Earnest had lost count, but he knew what the light meant: locked door. Stay away. Do not enter.

Earnest cocked his head to one side and listened. The telly was still on, and he could hear the sitter crunching away on her snacks. Rubbing his hands together - hands cold with excitement and a little bit of fear - Earnest pushed open the heavy door and stepped into a shiny, glowing world.

Standing there with his jaw hanging open, Earnest looked from one amazing sight to the next. There was a table piled high with manuals, endless papers covered with his father's chickenscratch handwriting, and there, on the counter, next to a row of test tubes and beakers - a huge glass jar of peaches! Earnest's mouth began to water. The babysitter was supposed to fix him his supper, but that was positively _ages_ away, and anyway, a little fruit never hurt anyone's appetite.

Earnest pulled over a stool and climbed up onto it as fast as he could. Little fingers pried open the heavy lid, dipped into the jar and reached for a fat, juicy peach, dripping with a pungent liquid. Without waiting to take it to the kitchen, Earnest bit into the fruit, spraying juice everywhere. He closed his eyes and savoured the taste before taking another bite, and another.

It wasn't until the peach was half-eaten that Earnest started to feel funny. His throat seemed to be closing. The next bite was hard to swallow; a chunk of peach caught in his throat, and he coughed against it. Flailing helplessly, his little face turning a charming shade of blue, Earnest fell off the high stool, onto the hard metal floor. His wide, staring eyes were fixed on the jar - on the bright red label affixed to the side:

WARNING: Toxic Chemicals. Wash Hands After Being In Contact With This Product.

* * *

_**E is for Earnest who choked on a peach...**_


	6. F is for Fanny

-This is a work of fiction based on The Gashlycrumb Tinies, a poem and alphabet primer by Edward Gorey. It is rated T for violence resulting in accidental and intentional deaths. This work is written purely for entertainment value. Please don't sue me.-

* * *

F is for Fanny  
by Elisabeth Henry

The swamp was cold and a little dreary, but to Fanny, it was beautiful.

So far removed from their beautiful, Louisiana estate, the bog held wonders and mysteries that captivated the mind and heart of a ten year old girl. It was a whole other world: a place where Trolls and faeries made their homes, where witches hid behind the gnarled branches of mud-caked trees, and where princesses fled in order to escape from unwanted marriages (only to be rescued by a handsome prince, of course!).

Fanny spent an enormous amount of time in the swamp. Whenever her brother started off with his vials and testing equipment and chemicals, Fanny would beg to go with him. And because he loved her dearly, and could deny her nothing, he took her to work with him. He would gather his samples while Fanny played at hide-and-go-seek with imaginary beasts, and then he would listen indulgently to her adventures and her 'happily-ever-afters' as they drove home for lunch.

On Monday, Fanny was a regal queen who had been turned into a swamp monster for her arrogance and vanity. On Tuesday, Fanny was a magician's apprentice, sent to the swamp to find a rare and special herb. On Wednesday, Fanny was a poor shepherdess who had wandered into the swamp by mistake, only to be captured by a mean and spiteful crone. On Thursday, Fanny was a star - a glowing, yellow star that had fallen deep into the swamp, and waited for her true love to find her.

Thursday's game was the most fun, if a trifle draining. On the way home that afternoon, sharing the happy ending with her brother, Fanny's descriptions of being a powerful yet humble star seemed a little .. lacklustre, somehow. As the day wore on, she felt more and more tired. At supper, Fanny's mother remarked that she was looking a little pale, and perhaps the poor dear should lie down and get some rest. Fanny nodded listlessly and shuffled off to her room, not even bothering to undress before falling into bed.

When they came upon her the next morning, she was as white as her sheets, and twice as dead. Turning her over, they saw an enormous, fat leech on her lower back, happy and sated by the invigorating blood of youth. Fanny's mother fainted. Fanny's brother buried his face in his hands and cried. There would be no more happy endings for Fanny.

Still, it was a happy ending for the leech, at least.

* * *

_**F is for Fanny sucked dry by a leech...**_


	7. G is for George

-This is a work of fiction based on The Gashlycrumb Tinies, a poem and alphabet primer by Edward Gorey. It is rated T for violence resulting in accidental and intentional deaths. This work is written purely for entertainment value. Please don't sue me.-

* * *

G is for George  
by Elisabeth Henry

George hated it when the Rothburys came to play. There were six of them, and they took all the good hiding spots.

If it hadn't been raining outside, the children would have been let loose on the estate, and there would have been a great deal less running on the stairs, and messing of the towels, and terrorising of the cat. But it had been raining, and it had been raining all week, and it showed no sign of stopping.

George's mum had arranged to have tea with Mrs Rothbury - just the two of them, of course - but when Mr Rothbury came down with a bad case of the mumps... Well, the Rothbury children couldn't be left to fend for themselves. Not all six of them.

The eldest, Sarah, was a little devil who liked to pull George's hair and make him cry. And then there were Matthew and Anthony, the twins, one of whom would hold George down while the other kicked him. Beth and Rebecca would cry and scream if they didn't get their way - this happened amazingly often, much to George's dismay - and the youngest, Philip, was just old enough to have learned the word 'No', and used it almost exclusively in conversation.

Hide-And-Go-Seek was all right when they were in the woods just beyond the stream, or when they were at the Rothbury mansion, with its hundred of marvellous hiding spots. George's mum and dad had never really cared for large houses though, so when the Rothburys came to play, they were sent out onto the grounds with little more than a cup of lemonade and an admonition to be back before six.

But not today.

Water cascaded down the heavy, leaded-glass windows, and the constant rolls of thunder made George jump. He was already in a panic: Rebecca had counted to sixty-two, and he still didn't have a hiding place. All of his usual spots had been taken up by those beastly Rothbury children.

Passing his father's study, George stopped. He wasn't supposed to go into the study - no one was, except his father; that was a rule of the house - but he desperately needed someplace to hide. Pushing the door open, George stepped into the room and looked around.

Chairs, a small table by the window, and his father's huge mahogany desk... they were all adequate hiding places, but for George - a veritable master at Hide-And-Go-Seek, even at the tender age of nine - they were simply not good enough. He prowled around the study, conscious of the fact that Rebecca's counting must soon reach one hundred.

There was a beautiful Persian rug on the floor, heavy and elaborately-woven. Now, that; that would make a good hiding spot. George lay down on the solid wood boards and crawled under the rug. It lay heavy on him, a solid, comforting weight that made him think of the time his cat had draped itself across his back, one lazy afternoon in July.

The sound of the rain splashing against the window, the weight of the rug, and the warmth and darkness in this most perfect of hiding places soon conspired to send George to sleep. The idea that Rebecca wouldn't enter the study - because for all her faults, she was an obedient child - never really occurred to him.

The Rothburys took turns at being 'It', though none of them ever found George. But his father did, after Mrs Rothbury and her brood had left. The rug had quite effectively hidden him, as George had hoped; but it had also managed to smother him rather effectively, too.

* * *

_**G is for George smothered under a rug...**_


	8. H is for Hector

-This is a work of fiction based on The Gashlycrumb Tinies, a poem and alphabet primer by Edward Gorey. It is rated T for violence resulting in accidental and intentional deaths. This work is written purely for entertainment value. Please don't sue me.-

* * *

H is for Hector  
by Elisabeth Henry

Even Hector's mother had to admit that her son was a bit of a prat, sometimes.

'Mum, did you know that the national bird of India is the peacock?'

'Yes, Hector.'

The boy's family had been to the continent every year since he was three, and now he was going on twelve. This year, it was India - Delhi, to be precise.

'Daddy, did you know that chess was invented in India?'

'Yes, Hector.'

Ever since they'd bought him the complete Encyclopaedia Britannica, Hector's parents had been subjected to a never-ending stream of trivia, on every subject imaginable. It wasn't that his mother and father minded his search for knowledge; on the contrary, they encouraged it. They supplied him with books, a computer, and the best tutors in England.

They just wished he weren't such an insufferable know-it-all.

'Mum, did you know that the number system was invented in India?'

'Yes, Hector.'

In an effort to keep him occupied - and hopefully, quiet - Hector's parents had bought him a small booklet, detailing some of the more interesting facts about their destination. They were discovering that, although it did indeed keep him occupied, it did absolutely nothing to still his tongue.

'Daddy, did you know that the world's highest cricket ground is in India?'

'Yes, Hector.'

Responses to Hector's little tidbits of information - however wrong they might be - were typically brief. Arguing with him resulted in a temper tantrum; besides, no one wanted to encourage him. Still, there were times when his parents could not resist correcting him.

'Oo-er; it says here that the Thugs were a death cult.'

Hector's mother stopped dead in her tracks and turned to stare at him. 'Don't be absurd, Hector. That's just legend.'

The boy shook his head and set his mouth in a thin, hard line. 'No, it says so right here.' He pointed to a page in the leather-bound book. His voice took on that annoying lilt he used when he was proving himself right, and someone else wrong. '"The Thug strangled his victim by throwing a yellow scarf, symbolic of Kali, around the neck, and then plundered and buri -"'

'Hector!' His mother's tone was sharp, verging on the edge of hysteria. 'I think we've had enough from you on the subject.'

'But, mum -'

'Enough!' She snapped her fingers in front of Hector's nose, and his eyes crossed in an effort to focus on her hand. 'Now, put the book away and come along.'

'But, mum -'

'Do as your mother says, Hector.' His father's voice was mild, but his eyes held a warning that even Hector could read.

The boy's mother turned away and moved more quickly through the crowded, noisy bazaar. Hector trailed behind his parents in a bit of a sulk, mumbling to himself. It wasn't fair that they should buy him this absolutely brilliant book and then not let him share what was in it. This Thug stuff was jolly interesting; Hector had never read anything quite so absorbing before.

His nose buried in the book, he failed to notice that his parents had moved farther and farther ahead of him. By the time he'd forgotten their warning, and looked up to share some new piece of trivia, they were completely out of sight.

Hector glanced around, peering through the crowd, vainly searching for a familiar face, or even landmark. The bazaar was chaotic - a riot of colour and sound that made his head spin. Hector was jostled about by several passers-by, bounced between them before managing to dash over to a nearby stall.

Safely out of the path of the market-goers, Hector looked around for his parents again. They were nowhere in sight, and even if they had been, he would have been hard-pressed to squeeze through the mass of people in order to reach them. Looking a little lost, the boy approached the stall, fingering the rich carpets that hung from the wooden frame.

Inside a small alcove created by the heavy tapestries, there were two men sitting on a small mat on the ground, conversing in low voices. One of them looked up at Hector, and grinned. His teeth were chipped, and dark with rot. Hector winced slightly, but the man beckoned to him in a friendly way. With one more brief glance at the street - and still unable to find his parents - Hector stepped into the cool darkness of the stall. Upon closer inspection, Hector saw that the men wore the cheerful dress of wandering merchants, and both sported colourful kerchiefs round their necks.

The kerchiefs were a particularly bright shade of yellow.

* * *

**_H is for Hector done in by a thug..._**


	9. I is for Ida

-This is a work of fiction based on The Gashlycrumb Tinies, a poem and alphabet primer by Edward Gorey. It is rated T for violence resulting in accidental and intentional deaths. This work is written purely for entertainment value. Please don't sue me.-

* * *

I is for Ida  
by Elisabeth Henry

It was late afternoon, and The Children's Repertory Company was taking a break from their rehearsal of 'The Tragedy of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark'. Philip and Stephen, handsomely dressed as Hamlet and Laertes, stood at the edge of Loweswater, watching Ida drown.

'D'you suppose that's what they call method acting?' Philip asked, wiping his eleven-year old nose on his sleeve.

Stephen nodded solemnly as the girl flailed about in the middle of the lake. 'Stanislavski said that one should always approach a role as directly as possible,' he said, feeling very wise for his thirteen years.

Philip looked contemplatively over the water as Ida went down for the second time.

'She's being very thorough, don't you think?' he said, somewhat hesitantly.

Stephen shrugged indifferently. 'I imagine she's doing her best,' he replied, 'but of course, there are no willow trees here.' He studied the edges of the lake as the girl splashed helplessly in the centre. 'I should think the Meisner technique would be more appropriate in this case.'

Philip nodded slowly. Together, the two boys watched Ida sink beneath the clear waters of the lake for the last time. Her hair wreath floated leisurely towards them. Stephen reached out and plucked it from the water. The silk flowers were appallingly damp.

'I suppose,' Philip said thoughtfully, 'this is going to make future rehearsals rather difficult.'

* * *

**_I is for Ida who drowned in a lake..._**


	10. J is for James

-This is a work of fiction based on The Gashlycrumb Tinies, a poem and alphabet primer by Edward Gorey. It is rated T for violence resulting in accidental and intentional deaths. This work is written purely for entertainment value. Please don't sue me.-

* * *

J is for James  
by Elisabeth Henry

James wobbled a bit, then grabbed on to the shelf and glanced down at the basement floor. Mother often complained about the unevenness of the cement, usually while giving father quite a nasty look. James never had occasion to consider her words before, but now, precariously balanced atop a rickety old stool, he understood her concern. Why, it was positively dangerous.

After carefully testing his footing, James returned to his task, peering at the bottles clustered on the high shelf. Some of them were very pretty, and some were very dusty; some had labels, and some did not. No matter - James knew exactly which one he was after.

Last month, his governess had purchased a bottle of lemon squash from Marks & Spencer, and James had been permitted a very small taste. Since then, he had not forgotten the delicious, tart flavour of the sweet cordial. He remembered the bottle quite clearly, too: it was tall, and slender, and made of green glass, with a yellow cap and an equally yellow label.

James poked through the assortment of bottles, careful to maintain his balance on the high stool. He was certain that the lemon cordial was here on this shelf, because he'd seen the maid carrying the delicate bottle down from the kitchen yesterday afternoon, whilst humming 'I Feel Pretty'. Her litany of show tunes annoyed father to no end, but she was the best maid on their street, and mother would insist on keeping her. Good help was so hard to find.

_Nine-year old arms are terribly inconvenient_, James thought to himself, as he flapped one hand around haphazardly, trying to reach the back of the shelf. His fingers brushed against a thin, glass bottle, which tipped over and landed with its yellow cap facing outwards.

James clapped his hands excitedly, then gave a soft 'whoops!' and reached for the shelf as the stool rocked back and forth like a ship in a storm. He struggled to regain his footing, making a mental note to talk to his father about the floor. It really was exceptionally dangerous.

With the bottle of cordial tucked under one arm, James settled himself on the stool. He braced his prize between his knees and gave the cap an experimental twist. It was a trifle stiff, but with a little effort, he managed to remove it. Leaning down to sniff the contents of the bottle, he was disappointed to discover that it did not smell nearly the same as he remembered.

James tipped the bottle to his lips and took a long, healthy swallow of the clear liquid. For an instant, it occurred to him that this was, perhaps, not lemon squash after all.

The bottle fell from his hand and smashed against the cement floor. James clutched at his throat, and the tall stool wobbled once again, sending him after the shattered bottle.

At mother's insistence, the floor was smoothed out that very weekend. Of course, the maid was reprimanded for her part in the affair, but she _was_ the best on their street. And good help is _so_ hard to find.

* * *

**_J is for James who took lye by mistake..._**


	11. K is for Kate

-This is a work of fiction based on The Gashlycrumb Tinies, a poem and alphabet primer by Edward Gorey. It is rated T for violence resulting in accidental and intentional deaths. This work is written purely for entertainment value. Please don't sue me.-

* * *

K is for Kate  
by Elisabeth Henry

Two police officers stood in the small, snow-covered field. One of them was chewing a stick of peppermint gum.

'Give us a bit o' that, won't ye?' said his partner. His breath plumed in the freezing night air.

The gum changed hands.

'Wot d'ye think?' asked the taller of the two, as he returned the packet of gum to his Duffle coat.

'Definitely suicide,' said the first officer, chewing ferociously on his gum. He pulled a notebook from an inside pocket.

The second officer looked pensively at the corpse. There was an enormous, single-bladed axe sticking out of the girl's chest, and her nightgown was soaked with blood. 'Oh, aye,' he said, stuffing his hands into his pockets to ward off the chill. ''S possible.'

The first officer nodded firmly and whipped out a ratty pencil stub. He licked the tip and flipped to a blank page in his notebook. 'Su-i-cide,' he said, carefully writing it in his book.

'Only,' the second officer added, 'that axe is bigger than she is, innit?'

There was a moment's silence while the two men considered this fact.

'Well,' said the first officer, 'she could've thrown 'erself on it, like.'

His partner nodded slowly. 'S'pose,' he said agreeably. 'Only, she's on her back, ain't she?'

The first officer crouched beside the tiny body. Its arms were flung out above its head, its eyes wide and staring. The officer twisted his head a bit, following the corpse's gaze. The sky was clear, and the stars were very bright.

'Wonder wot she's lookin' at,' he said aloud.

The second officer glanced up, and shrugged. 'I don't see nuffin'.' He looked around at the scene. ''Ere. There's tracks 'ere,' he said, pointing.

There were, indeed, tracks. Large ones. Too large to belong to a six-year old girl.

'Assisted suicide?' the first officer amended.

His partner considered this for a moment. 'Yeah, maybe,' he said. He nodded towards the corpse. 'Wot's that on 'er wrist, then?' he asked. 'Looks like a bracelet.'

'Erhm,' said the first officer, peering at it. 'It's a bracelet.'

The second officer looked thoughtful. 'Wot's it say?'

The first officer leaned over and unclasped the gold-plated bangle. Spelled out on the side, in cheap rhinestones, was a name: Kate.

'Sez "Kate",' he replied, straightening. 'D'you s'pose that's 'er name?'

'Nah,' said the second officer, studying the vacant face of the dead child. 'She looks more like a "Polly", don't ye think?'

The first officer pursed his lips and nodded. 'Yeah. Or a "Barbara".'

His partner grunted noncommittally as an ambulance drew up next to them. The emergency crew climbed out and fussed around the corpse as the two officers wandered back to their patrol car.

'Startin' younger an' younger, ain't they?' said the second officer, sighing.

The first officer nodded. 'Yeah. Real sad, like,' he agreed. He spit his gum into a nearby bush. 'C'mon; it's Ruth's birthday. There's cake back at the station.'

'Oo-er, cake,' the second officer said, belting himself into the passenger seat. 'Chocolate?'

'Erhm, lemon, I think,' said the first officer as they drove away, wheels crunching over the snow. 'Chocolate gives her gas, like.'

* * *

**_K is for Kate who was struck with an axe..._**


	12. L is for Leo

-This is a work of fiction based on The Gashlycrumb Tinies, a poem and alphabet primer by Edward Gorey. It is rated T for violence resulting in accidental and intentional deaths. This work is written purely for entertainment value. Please don't sue me.-

-With apologies to William Shakespeare.-

* * *

L is for Leo  
by Elisabeth Henry

A little boy named Leo (who was four)  
Came crawling to his mum and dad one day.  
He rolled about and writhed upon the floor.  
'My tummy hurts!' was all that he could say.  
His parents fussed and put the boy to bed,  
And gave him milk and charcoal for the pain,  
But early the next morning he was dead.  
'Alas!' they cried, 'our efforts were in vain'  
A brief autopsy was performed that week;  
Leo's remains were subject to inquiry.  
The doctors said the case was quite unique;  
They found the reason for his swift expiry,  
...And told poor Leo's mum and dad the facts:  
...His tummy was completely filled with tacks.

* * *

**_L is for Leo who swallowed some tacks..._**


	13. M is for Maud

-This is a work of fiction based on The Gashlycrumb Tinies, a poem and alphabet primer by Edward Gorey. It is rated T for violence resulting in accidental and intentional deaths. This work is written purely for entertainment value. Please don't sue me.-

* * *

M is for Maud  
by Elisabeth Henry

Maud was thirteen years old, and the best at _everything_. She was the fastest runner, the strongest swimmer, and the smartest student in her class. She could jump farther than her father, sing more beautifully than her mother, and had the biggest collection of dolls in all of England. There was nothing Maud couldn't do.

Or so she claimed. Frequently, and at length. And if anyone dared to tell her differently, she became even _more_ certain of her superiority.

No matter how many times she was proved wrong, Maud persisted in believing that she was better than everyone. When she lost at draughts, it was because her opponent had cheated. When she was beaten at tennis, it was because her racquet was faulty. When she failed to take first at the Oxford Science Fair, it was because the judges were nepotists.

Her parents had grown quite sick of it. They did their best to keep Maud out of trouble, but there were times when she simply insisted on doing the most foolish things. The girl had fallen off a roof while balancing on the ridgepole, burned her feet while walking over hot coals, and accidentally stabbed herself while playing Mumbleypeg.

Finally, her mother's patience ran out.

'I've had enough!' she said to her husband one summer's evening, as Maud was being wheeled into surgery to have a Polo mint removed from her left nostril. 'I can't bear it another minute!'

Maud's father made soothing noises, and suggested a little trip to the shore the next day for a swim and a bite to eat. A week-end holiday was exactly what they all needed, he said. So, plans were made, Maud was released from the hospital, and the next morning, the family set out to the seafront at Southend.

From the very start, it was a disaster. At Adventure Island, Maud said she could ride the Sky Drop fifteen times in a row without throwing up. In Woolworths, Maud insisted she could balance a glass biscuit jar on her head. At the Central Museum, Maud claimed she could find her way through the building with her eyes shut.

Finally, Maud's parents managed to herd the girl towards the beach. The tide was going out, and in spite of the warmth of the day, there was a high, strong wind. Maud's mother laid out a large blanket, then settled down and pulled a bottle of aspirin from an enormous satchel filled with food.

'I'll bet I can swim out to the end of the pier,' Maud said, as she peeled off her outer layer of clothing. Her blue-and-red striped bathing suit was by far the brightest on the beach.

Maud's mother sighed. Maud's father shook his head.

'We're going to have tea in a minute,' he said mildly, helping Maud's mother unpack the sandwiches. 'Besides, it's too dangerous.'

'It isn't!' Maud said, stamping her foot.

'You'll be swept away by the time you get half a mile...' her mother said, her voice trailing off.

'I _won't_!' the girl insisted, stamping her foot again, and frowning quite unpleasantly.

Her parents looked pointedly at each other before turning back to Maud.

'All right,' her father said pleasantly. 'Have fun.'

Maud dashed into the water without so much as a backwards glance.

Her mother smiled indulgently. 'Be back in time for tea!' she called, but Maud was too far away to hear.

Her parents waved cheerfully at her as the rushing tide carried her out to sea.

For the first time in thirteen years, tea was a delightful affair.

* * *

**_M is for Maud who was swept out to sea..._**


	14. N is for Neville

-This is a work of fiction based on The Gashlycrumb Tinies, a poem and alphabet primer by Edward Gorey. It is rated T for violence resulting in accidental and intentional deaths. This work is written purely for entertainment value. Please don't sue me.-

-AUTHOR'S NOTE: In Times Past (Georgian through Edwardian periods, for those of you who care), 'dying of ennui' was the euphemism for 'committing suicide' (as in William Faulkner's The Town). When one suffered from ennui, one was so tired of life that there was nothing left to look forward to, and thus, death was the last option.-

* * *

N is for Neville  
by Elisabeth Henry

Six-year old Neville had seen and done everything.

His days were filled with tedium, punctuated by the occasional trip into London with his parents. He'd been four times, so far, and hated every minute of it.

Not that their estate in Dover was much better, of course.

He'd ridden his expensive red tricycle around the grounds every day this summer. His father had installed a shiny chrome bicycle bell on the handlebars, but it soon lost its novelty. Even the excitement of the Harry Potter wheel spokies had faded.

Neville sighed deeply and shifted his feet on the pedals, edging forward a few inches. He had read every single picture book in his personal library. All his colouring books were filled with neat, precise strokes of a coloured pencil. He'd even managed to stay in the lines, for the most part.

It seemed that Neville was doomed to disappointment. His terrier, Belle, had taken first place at the dog show in the village last spring. Two weeks later, in a freak yachting accident, Belle breathed her last. The new Belle was a Corgi, and kept trying to herd Neville into corners, much to his distress. Neville hated Corgis, and couldn't understand why the Queen was so fond of them.

The only joy Neville had found was here, at the White Cliffs; but they were eroding away at an average of one centimetre per year. It was enough to make him quite sick.

Perched on his red tricycle, he looked over the edge, into the water. There was nothing left for him, now.

He rang his little bicycle bell on the way down.

* * *

**_N is for Neville who died of ennui..._**


	15. O is for Olive

-This is a work of fiction based on The Gashlycrumb Tinies, a poem and alphabet primer by Edward Gorey. It is rated T for violence resulting in accidental and intentional deaths. This work is written purely for entertainment value. Please don't sue me.-

* * *

O is for Olive  
by Elisabeth Henry

See Olive. See Olive run.

Olive likes to build castles out of boxes. Olive annoys the maid by using the best silver as turrets. Olive annoys her mother by using her $300 perfume as moat-water. Olive annoys her father by using his tools to carve crenellations into the battlements.

See Olive. See Olive fail to clean up after herself.

Oh, no! Mother will be upset to see that Olive has turned an expensive hat box into Dracula's Castle. Oh, no! Father will be upset to see that his thickest scratch awl has been appropriated and set into quick-drying clay as Dracula's Tower.

See Olive. See Olive run to the kitchen.

'Look, mother, look! I have built a castle!'

See Olive's mother roll her eyes and shoo Olive away with a teatowel. Poor Olive!

See Olive. See Olive run to the study.

'Look, father, look! I have built a castle!'

See Olive's father growl and shoo Olive away with harsh words and a closed fist. Poor Olive!

See Olive. See Olive run back to her castle in tears. See Olive trip over a carelessly discarded Phillips screwdriver. See Olive fall face first onto her creation. Oops! Poor Olive!

See the awl poking merrily through Olive's torso. See Olive's mother faint as she comes across her skewered child.

Poor Olive!

* * *

**_O is for Olive run through with an awl..._**


	16. P is for Prue

-This is a work of fiction based on The Gashlycrumb Tinies, a poem and alphabet primer by Edward Gorey. It is rated T for violence resulting in accidental and intentional deaths. This work is written purely for entertainment value. Please don't sue me.-

* * *

P is for Prue  
by Elisabeth Henry

Six-year old Prue lived with her mother and father in a pretty little cottage on a pretty little street in Greater London.

They were very happy. They would go on picnics and play croquet and eat watercress sandwiches.

One day, Prue's mother developed a strange fever. The doctors could do nothing for her, and she died soon after.

Prue's father took to drinking cheap liquor. He would often forget to feed himself. Sometimes he would stay at the pub until all hours of the night, while Prue huddled outside the door in the freezing rain, waiting to escort him home.

One evening, there was a terrible fight in the pub. Prue's father was too drunk to notice when four burly men rolled out the front door in a flurry of fists and curses. There was a small body blocking the exit, so Prue's father stumbled out the back way. He was halfway home before he noticed that Prue was not with him. By the time he returned to the pub, Prue had breathed her last.

The barman offered Prue's father ten pounds in restitution, which he promptly spent on a bottle of gin.

* * *

**_P is for Prue trampled flat in a brawl..._**


	17. Q is for Quentin

-This is a work of fiction based on The Gashlycrumb Tinies, a poem and alphabet primer by Edward Gorey. It is rated T for violence resulting in accidental and intentional deaths. This work is written purely for entertainment value. Please don't sue me.-

-Thanks to _What's That Bug?_ for the moth.-

* * *

Q is for Quentin  
by Elisabeth Henry

Flit, flit.

Quentin dashed away from the picnic blanket to chase after the very rare Cosmosoma myrodora. It wasn't difficult to follow - its bright red body and black, stained-glass style wings were terribly distinctive.

The wasp moth fluttered just out of reach of Quentin's net. It moved deeper into the bog, occasionally resting on a leaf or branch before flying off again.

Quentin bit his lower lip and picked his way carefully through the mud. He slipped, cursing softly as he regained his balance, then looked around guiltily, just in case someone had heard him. He could still taste the soap from the last time he'd been caught swearing.

The moth hovered over Quentin's head, and he waved his net at it. It neatly dodged him and continued its journey into the mire.

Quentin frowned and brushed a lock of white-blonde hair out of his eyes. If he didn't know better - and he _did _know better - he'd say that the moth was leading him somewhere. But Cosmosoma myrodora wasn't any more intelligent than any other moth, and _no _moth was _that _clever.

The air seemed to be turning a delicate shade of green. Quentin glanced over his shoulder, back the way he'd come. There was no trace of his progress, and he could no longer hear the cheerful clacking of his mum putting away the picnic dishes. He wondered if he oughtn't head back, now.

The moth darted around him again, coming quite close to his nose. Quentin's eyes crossed as he tried to focus on the insect. He lifted his net and brought it down on nothing. The brightly-coloured insect had flown off again, just out of reach.

Quentin blew out his breath in frustration. Gripping his official Little Entomologist (tm) butterfly net with both hands, he made a mad lunge for the moth. It skipped up and away as Quentin landed flat on his face in the mud. He dropped his net, wiped the muck and water out of his eyes, and tried to get to his feet.

The pretty little Cosmosoma myrodora settled on a low-lying bush. Its antennae seemed to tilt to one side in expectation.

Like a living thing, the bog latched on to Quentin's feet quite firmly, dragging him down into the mud. He called out fruitlessly and flailed about, trying to find a rock or a tree branch to latch onto, but there was nothing within reach of his nine-year old arms. Soon, Quentin was up to his shoulders in mud and grass and water, but there was nothing for it. His eyes widened as he sank deeper and deeper into the mire: neck, chin, mouth...

The scarlet-bodied wasp moth with the stained-glass wings lifted off and flew out of Quentin's line of sight. He felt it settle on his hair.

When there was no more Quentin to light upon, the moth flew away.

* * *

**_Q is for Quentin who sank in a mire..._**


	18. R is for Rhoda

-This is a work of fiction based on The Gashlycrumb Tinies, a poem and alphabet primer by Edward Gorey. It is rated T for violence resulting in accidental and intentional deaths. This work is written purely for entertainment value. Please don't sue me.-

* * *

R is for Rhoda  
by Elisabeth Henry

The paramedics wheeled Rhoda's charred body out of the living room. Her six-year old brother Arthur sat in an overstuffed chair, legs dangling over the edge. There was a light coating of soot on his natty blue jacket, and a heavy crystal bowl on his lap. Arthur plucked a lightly-toasted marshmallow from the bowl and nibbled on it. From where he sat, he could see the burnt spot in the carpet.

The adults milled about, wringing their hands. There were whispered conversations. Arthur heard only snatches.

'_- saw his own sister's death, poor dear -_'

'_- such a tragedy -_'

'_- not distress him any further -_'

The police detective knelt beside Arthur, who offered him one of the golden marshmallows. The officer smiled politely and accepted.

'And what did you do when Rhoda caught fire?' the detective asked, popping the gooey treat into his mouth and pulling out his notebook.

Arthur held up the crystal bowl and beamed. 'Roasted marshmallows,' he said.

* * *

_**R is for Rhoda consumed by a fire...**_


	19. S is for Susan

-This is a work of fiction based on The Gashlycrumb Tinies, a poem and alphabet primer by Edward Gorey. It is rated T for violence resulting in accidental and intentional deaths. This work is written purely for entertainment value. Please don't sue me.-

* * *

S is for Susan  
by Elisabeth Henry

The school gym was decorated with the most hideous proliferation of plastic flowers and fake vines. Rock music bounced off the walls, loud enough to rattle skulls. The three girls snuck in through one of the side doors. Junior students were not allowed to attend the senior dances. It was all very dangerous and exciting.

'That's a nice bracelet!' Patricia shouted over the music.

'Thanks!' Susan shouted back. She twisted her wrist a little to show off the metal plate with the dark red caduceus. 'It's -' Her words were lost in the heavy thump-thump of the live band.

Patricia nodded vaguely. 'Nice!' she repeated, though she had no clue what Susan had said. No worries; she could ask after the dance.

Vikki bumped into them from behind. 'Hey!' she yelled into Patricia's ear. 'Isn't this great?'

'Yeah, great!' Patricia yelled. She squinted around the room. There were flashes of light from the horrible disco ball that hung from the ceiling.

The three girls moved through the crowd of students. Patricia and Vikki were soon invited to dance. When the song ended, they looked around for Susan, and saw her writhing on the floor in front of the stage.

'What's she doing?' Vikki shouted.

'Dunno,' Patricia yelled. 'Looks like some weird kind of dance.' The girls watched Susan for a bit. She continued to flail for a few minutes before finally collapsing.

Patricia and Vikki headed over to their friend. Susan was not moving. Patricia knelt down beside her.

'What's that on her wrist?' Vikki hollered over the music.

Patricia twisted the bracelet so that the pretty red caduceus was visible. 'New jewellery!' she shouted.

'That's not jewellery, you stupid nit!' Vikki yelled. She pointed at it. 'It's one of those medical things. What's it say on the back?'

Patricia turned over the metal plate and read the words inscribed there.

'It says "Epilep"-' Patricia looked up at Vikki. 'Oops.'

* * *

**_S is for Susan who perished of fits..._**


	20. T is for Titus

-This is a work of fiction based on The Gashlycrumb Tinies, a poem and alphabet primer by Edward Gorey. It is rated T for violence resulting in accidental and intentional deaths. This work is written purely for entertainment value. Please don't sue me.-

-Thanks to Francis Ford Coppola for the oranges.-

* * *

T is for Titus  
by Elisabeth Henry

Titus picked up the neatly-wrapped brown package. The plain white label said 'Antonio Vincenzo Mancito, Jr', and it was post-marked from New York City.

Antonio was Titus' roommate. He was away from their Islington boarding school on breavement leave or some such. He was an American; his father had recently been shot while buying oranges. Titus had the impression that their family was involved in some important organisation, but Antonio was never specific about it.

Titus shook the parcel. It rattled slightly. Antonio always received such lovely presents from his family in New York. Food, books, clothes, and sometimes even money.

He knew he shouldn't open the package - Titus was an honest boy, after all - but the temptation to see what was inside was so strong! It might be a new kind of American sweet, or one of those comic books they both loved to read after class.

This package was small and cosy-looking. It was wrapped in brown paper and tied with fuzzy string. Titus hesitated for just a moment before biting the string in half with his teeth. The paper fell away, revealing a small, red box. He turned it over in his hands a few times before opening it.

The explosion was heard as far away as Chelsea.

* * *

**_T is for Titus who flew into bits..._**


	21. U is for Una

-This is a work of fiction based on The Gashlycrumb Tinies, a poem and alphabet primer by Edward Gorey. It is rated T for violence resulting in accidental and intentional deaths. This work is written purely for entertainment value. Please don't sue me.-

* * *

U is for Una  
by Elisabeth Henry

'Isn't', said Una.

'Is,' said Penny.

'Nah', said Una. 'Is one of those wossnames. Rummers.'

'Rumours!' her mother called from the drawing room.

Penny looked dubious. 'Dunno. Sure seems like a good story.'

'C'mon.' Una pulled Penny to her feet. 'I'll show you.'

The girls left the house and headed down the street to the corner. A large grate was set into the concrete, water running into it from the recent rainstorm. It was currently open.

Una approached it carelessly. She slipped on a pile of soggy leaves and fell into the drain. There was a splash, and she squeaked in surprise.

'Una?' Penny called. 'D'you see any?'

There was a crunching noise, like bones breaking. Two huge, reptilian eyes peered up from the dark.

'Huh,' Penny mumbled. 'So there really _are_ alligators in the sewers.'

The gator spit out a piece of Una's dress and sank down into the murky water to wait for its next meal.

* * *

_**U is for Una who slipped down a drain...**_


	22. V is for Victor

-This is a work of fiction based on The Gashlycrumb Tinies, a poem and alphabet primer by Edward Gorey. It is rated T for violence resulting in accidental and intentional deaths. This work is written purely for entertainment value. Please don't sue me.-

* * *

V is for Victor  
by Elisabeth Henry

'I'm uncomfortable,' Victor complained.

'Oh, don't whinge on about it,' said his oldest brother, Donald.

'We won't be long,' said his second brother, Eric.

'I was the captive princess last time,' said his youngest brother, Basil. 'We all took a go.'

Victor wiggled against the ropes that bound him to the railway track.

'Bully,' he said grumpily. 'Just hurry it up, won't you?'

'Yes, yes,' his brothers said, as they rode away on their imaginary horses.

After a few dozen metres, Donald cocked his head. 'D'you hear that?' he said.

'What?' asked Eric.

'Mum's calling us!' said Basil.

There were fresh cookies in the kitchen when they arrived, breathless, back at the house.

'Where's Victor?' their mum asked, as she poured them some milk.

There was a train whistle in the distance. Donald blinked. Eric stopped chewing.

'Oops,' said Basil, as he helped himself to another cookie.

* * *

**_V is for Victor squashed under a train..._**


End file.
